I remember the way she described that feeling , like something was “off,” even before anything was clear. And maybe that’s as universal as anything gets: that sense that something isn’t quite right, even when life still feels like it’s moving forward.
Every teacher I’ve ever known carries that same weight. There’s always a student to encourage, a project to finish, a problem to solve. You’re expected to be “on” for everyone, every day. She was that teacher: tireless, focused, and full of that steadfast enthusiasm that makes you feel seen.
In the weeks before street painting, I watched her move through every detail with the same meticulous care she always brought to the classroom. She taught techniques, organized materials, and laughed with the kids as they mixed paints under the sun. Watching her in that environment, it struck me that her drive wasn’t about perfection; it was about connection, about what happens when people come together to make something beautiful.
I remember the day she told me the news. I was with her just before heading out to the painting event myself, and in a quiet moment she shared what had happened. There was no dramatic collapse, no tearful confession, just a steady awareness that life had changed. And then she stepped outside again.
What amazed me most wasn’t the diagnosis itself , it was the way she moved forward anyway. She didn’t disappear into rest or worry; she showed up. She laughed under that blazing sun, encouraged her students, and gave everything she had to the day.
I have only one photo from that afternoon. It’s blurry , a moment caught imperfectly, like memory. But every time I look at it I don’t think about confusion or fear. I think about presence. I think about how she kept giving, even when she could have folded inward.
What stayed with me most wasn’t a moment of struggle, it was a moment of choice. She chose presence over retreat. She chose connection over fear. And she chose life, in its messy, wonderful, overwhelming fullness.
If there’s one thing that day taught me, it’s this: presence matters more than answers. We don’t always get to know what’s coming next, but we can choose how we stand in the moments we’re given.
Maybe you’ve known someone like that too, someone who showed up when it would’ve been easier to disappear. Maybe their memory still guides the way you choose presence.
That’s the lesson I remember.
